"What do you wanna be when you grow up?"

Only one word comes to mind.

Yours.

I want to be yours.

I want to come home to see your car driving in ahead of me every night, so you can stick your tongue out at me and mock how I arrived there last.

I want to have little reminders of you running about the place making messes, so I can hug them and kiss their chubby little cheeks and can care for when you're away somewhere. At work, perhaps.

I want to wake up next to you in the middle of the night and make pancakes and go to that park nearby you always loved, even if it meant being tired in the morning when we'd have to do it all again with our little munchkins because obviously we wouldn't exclude them from all our fun.

I want to be scolded by you when I forget to go shopping for groceries and for buying the kids donuts without warning and telling them to keep it a secret, even though it would hurt my feelings a little. Because you would never really hurt me.

I want to pretend not to be crying when those kids turn eighteen and are going to college and we find ourselves suddenly living in a house that's too big and lonely once we realise how old we really are.



I want to wake up in the middle of the night and make pancakes and take a stroll in that park nearby you always loved, even if it meant I'd be tired the next day when I'd wake up to a house far too big for one person but filled with enough loving memories to keep me going.




"What do you wanna be when you grow up?" you asked.





"I dunno."



"A writer, maybe."